


Castiel's Song

by elliex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliex/pseuds/elliex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A human Cas feels lost; Sam plays matchmaker for Cas and Dean.</p><p>Supernatural belongs to the CW, Kripke, Carver, et. al. </p><p>Post-fall Castiel, but diverts from the Tablet storyline(s).</p><p>"I wanna sex you up" - Color Me Badd</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel's Song

“I can’t take it anymore,” Dean said, throwing the papers he was reviewing on the table. “It’s killing me.”

The Winchesters were doing their daily research hours, familiarizing themselves with the Men of Letters records. Sam snickered from behind his book. “Shut up, Sam” Dean ordered. Sam didn’t listen.

“Cas!” Dean’s yell reverberated throughout the bunker. 

No response. Well, except for Sam’s continued, pain-in-the-ass snickering.

Dean strode toward the hallway where the bedrooms were. “Castiel!” He yelled even more loudly. 

The humanized angel finally came shuffling barefooted into the room; his hair, Dean noted, was standing up all over his head, and he was dressed in jeans and an old Metallica t-shirt. 

“Yeah?” Cas looked and sounded like a surly teenager, which, Dean immediately realized, made him the old, out-of-date father. That idea brought Dean up short, and he swallowed the vitriol he had been about to unleash. It didn’t taste good going down. 

“Look, Cas, I get that you’re exploring the wide world of humanity, but can you please – and man, I mean _please_ – not blast your music all day?”

“Seriously?” Cas asked. “You woke us up with Zeppelin yesterday.”

“He’s right, Dean. You did,” Sam contributed helpfully. 

Dean glared at his brother. Sam smirked before going back to his reading. 

“Cas, Zeppelin is – it’s awesome. This is… well, dude, what you’re listening to is about as far from awesome as you can get.”

“I don’t care for your tone, Dean,” Cas said. 

“Yeah, well, you can “Nod your head like yeah” all you want. Still not going to make that a good song. I mean, once, I get. But on repeat? For an hour? Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

Cas dropped his head at that comment and shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets. Belatedly, Dean realized that the angel probably was remembering a day not too long ago when he’d been ordered to kill Dean and _had_ tried to. Shit, Dean thought, but he figured soldiering through the slip was better than acknowledging it. 

“Look, man,” he said, deliberately softening his tone. “At least take it off repeat, and turn it down a few dozen decibels?” He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Cas. 

Cas nodded stiffly and, without making eye contact with Dean, went back to his room.

Dean threw himself back into his chair with a loud sigh. Sam glanced at him over the top of his book. 

“Not a fan of the Cyrus, huh?,” Sam asked.

“That song sucks, Sam, and you know it.” Dean eyed his brother suspiciously. “Even you should be ready to commit murder after an hour of that – why aren’t you?”

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe I’m just more tolerant.” He went back to reading.

“Yeah, right,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. He listened as the music changed – to Gershwin, he thought it was – and the volume lowered. With a sigh of relief, he re-focused his energy onto the notes he had been taking. The rest of the day passed uneventfully and without the playing of any more pop songs. More than once, though, the image of Cas and his unruly hair played across Dean’s mind.

+

The next morning, Sam and Cas had breakfast while Dean made a supply run. Sam presented Cas with a couple of CDs that he’d burned the night before. 

“Dean shouldn’t hate these as much as he did that other song,” Sam said. He wondered briefly if there was any point to crossing his fingers behind his back or if hellfire was a surety no matter what.

“I still like that song,” Cas said. “It’s peppy. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Sam choked on his orange juice. “Uh-yeah. Still, though, try these, and see what you think.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome – and, uh, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell Dean I gave you these, okay? He – uh – he likes to help people learn music himself. He won’t like my stepping on his toes, so to speak.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Why would you step on his toes?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Figure of speech. Look, just don’t tell him I made these, okay?”

“Fine,” Cas said, obviously miffed that he – once again – didn’t understand a reference. He left the table, and a few minutes later, Sam heard music filling the air. 

The younger Winchester smiled to himself. He hated the shitty music too, but man, this was so worth it. He couldn’t wait for Dean to get home. 

+

Dean opened the door to the bunker, and he felt his blood pressure skyrocket immediately.

“Castiel!”

Cas didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t; dude was probably deaf by now. 

“Sam!”

No answer from that corner either. Dean dropped the bags in the entryway and secured the door. He’d let Sasquatch put the supplies away. He had to figure out what the hell was going on with Cas.

He didn’t even knock, violating one of his primary Bunker rules. He just threw open Cas’s door, walked over to the stereo, and turned off the stylings of some Auto-tuned boy band. He turned around to yell at his friend, but fear obliterated whatever he had been about to say. 

Cas didn’t even know Dean was there. He was lying on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling, and the look on his face was completely vacant – Had he overdosed? Dean ran to his side and checked his pulse. Tears of relief welled in his eyes when he felt the familiar beating of Cas’s heart. 

“Dean?” Cas asked, very much present again and looking at the hunter. 

“You looked like –“ Dean dropped Cas’s wrist like it was on fire. “I thought something was wrong.”

“Was my music too loud again?”

“It was loud,” Dean replied. He stood awkwardly beside the bed, looking down at the angel, the being, who’d pulled him out of hell. He wondered if he’d ever get over the awe he felt over that miracle; he doubted it. 

Cas pulled himself up to a sitting position. He reached a hand towards Dean’s face but then pulled it back. “Why are you crying?”

Dean brushed at the errant tear he hadn’t known was coursing its way down his cheek. “I thought something was wrong,” he repeated softly. He met Cas’s gaze briefly, long enough to feel the pull that had always been there. 

Dean stood by the bed a moment longer, carefully studying the ceiling, before he turned and stalked out of the room. Cas watched him go, puzzled by the emotions he could sense yet couldn’t name. 

He missed the days when he could read Dean’s soul.

+

Sam watched thoughtfully as Dean left Cas’s room and went straight into his own. Dean hadn’t even noticed Sam standing at the end of the hallway, which told Sam quite a lot about his brother’s state of mind – or was it his state of heart? 

Sam knew what _needed_ to happen, but getting Dean to face his feelings, even on a good day, was like convincing Mayberry’s Aunt Bee to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. And Cas couldn’t suss out his feelings about cereal yet, let alone about Dean, so things seemed to be at an impasse. 

The music was supposed to be a trigger – get Dean so irritated over the crappy pop music that he’d take on Cas’s musical education, forcing them to spend time together alone, and eventually resolve all the sexual tension, not to mention ending the depraved amounts of eye sex the two had engaged in for years. 

Sam wondered where a not-naked, stable Cupid was when he needed one.

+

Dean stayed up late that night, long past Sam, who went to bed around midnight. He was re-reading some books on angelic lore, hoping he might discover a detail he’d missed before, one that would help Cas. 

He didn't want to admit it to Sam, but he was worried about Cas. He vividly remembered the angel talking to him about suicide; it was a conversation that had left Dean cold, and even its memory sent a shiver over his soul. He turned his attention back to the lore. He had to find something.

Cas sitting down in the chair beside him was startling; Dean had been working so intently that he hadn’t even heard the angel come into the room. Cas didn’t say anything, though, so Dean stayed silent and kept working, his black pen continuing to loudly scratch notes onto a legal pad. 

They stayed like that for several minutes, until finally Cas said softly, “The music reminds me of the host.”

Dean looked over at his friend. Cas was looking down at his hands clasped on the table, loss and grief bare in his face. Dean wisely didn’t say anything; he just waited.

“It’s not the same, of course. But the louder the music, the louder the vibrations – I tell myself that it’s like being connected to the heavenly host.” Cas paused a moment before looking up and meeting Dean’s gaze. “I miss it, Dean.”

Dean reached out and laid a hand on his friend’s, squeezing gently and intertwining their fingers, before he even recognized that he’d acted on the usually-resisted impulse. 

“I know you do. I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas tightened his hold on Dean’s hand. With the gesture, warmth flooded Dean’s body, and he marveled, for the millionth time, at how profoundly Cas affected him. He wondered how this felt for Cas, and wished, also for the millionth time, that he could bring himself to ask. Dean swallowed, wondering if he could find the words for once. Before he could, though, Cas was talking again, so Dean listened. 

“Being human is hard – much harder than anything I could have imagined. I have knowledge, but I cannot do much with it. I’m more of a burden than a help, and I endanger you and Sam,” Cas said. He added so softly that Dean almost missed it, “You should let me go.”

His grip on Castiel’s hand turned to iron, eliciting a gasp from the former angel. “Look at me, Cas,” he demanded, only continuing when they had full-on eye contact. “I have never, nor will I ever, let you go. So get that out of your head, right now.” He took a deep breath. “I need you, Cas. How many damn times do I have to tell you?”

Cas shook his head miserably. “You don’t need me, Dean. You need someone who can—”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean growled. His other hand was suddenly buried in dark, tousled hair, and he was fitting his mouth possessively over the angel’s, parting Cas’s lips with his tongue. Cas made a sound – whether it was a protest or assent, Dean didn’t know and in that moment didn’t care. He plundered the angel’s mouth, an exploration of tongues and teeth and a pulsing, driving need to possess. He pulled the angel to him and guided him back onto the table, shoving books and papers carelessly to the floor. 

When Dean finally drew back, Cas’s blue eyes were lust-blown, like his own, he was sure – lips red, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged. What a pair they were, Dean mused, pressing his lips to Cas’s jawline, conscious of the angel’s intense gaze. 

“Dean?” Cas whispered. 

“Hmm?” Dean murmured, working his way down the angel’s throat. 

“Do that again – please.” Cas gripped a handful of Dean’s hair, lightly pulling the hunter’s head up. Dean needed no encouragement, though, and he willingly lost himself in Castiel’s mouth again. 

Minutes – or maybe it was hours, who knew? – later, the hard edges of the table bit into Dean’s consciousness, reminding him where they were. He'd lost his shirt, but otherwise, they were still clothed, though he suspected not for long.

“Bedroom?” he asked against Cas’s lips.

“Yes,” Cas murmured back. 

Despite not loosening their hold on each other, the two managed to make it to Dean’s room – it was the closest. Castiel kicked the door shut as he guided Dean to the bed, and both were lost to the need for skin-on-skin contact. 

Cas lay back on the memory foam mattress and pulled Dean down, running his hands along the hunter’s broad, muscled chest and arms. Dean slipped an arm around Cas’s waist, and slid him so that they were face-to-face, hip-to-hip. 

“Don’t leave me, Cas,” he said, green eyes staring into blue. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against the oceanic depths that could drown him. “Please, Cas – don’t leave again.”

Cas looked deeply into the now-open green eyes, the very ones that had pierced through his self-righteous sense of duty and had brought him fully into humanity. “I’m yours, Dean. I promise—” He ran his fingertips along the hunter’s chiseled jaw, marveling yet again at God’s creation of Dean Winchester. 

Dean looked into the blue depths and nodded at the truth of what he saw. “And I’m yours, Cas.”

The angel pressed up, and they sealed the promise with a kiss – and everything else they could think of too.

+

By dawn, the two lay entwined in each other’s arms, comfortably close – cuddling, truth be told, though Dean would never admit it. He was sated and felt safe and happy for the first time in years. He hoped Cas felt the same. By the way Cas was curled against him, softly tracing his fingertips up and down his arm, Dean guessed that he did. 

Cas drew back and the drowsy, contented look sparked something deep inside of Dean—he suspected it was love, but he wasn’t naming it, not yet. 

“I heard them, Dean,” Cas said with wonder in his voice.

“Heard who?” Dean asked. 

“The host.” 

“I don’t understand, Cas. I thought you said you were cut off from them?”

“I thought so too, but when you – when we –“ Cas stumbled over the words. “I heard them.”

Dean leaned back into the pillow, tightening his arm around Cas’s waist. “Are you sure?,” he asked, giving Cas a devilish grin. “Maybe the sex was just that good.”

Cas shook his head, and the seriousness on his face made Dean drop his usual banter. “No, Dean. I heard the host, because of you – through you, or rather, through our connection – I heard them singing.” He closed his eyes and lay his head on the pillow beside Dean’s. “It was beautiful,” he said with a contented sigh. 

“Oh, wow,” Dean said, without a trace of sarcasm or snark. He felt Cas slip into slumber as he tried to wrap his mind around whatever celestial bond allowed Castiel to connect with the host through him. He wondered if the feeling was what “awe-some” originally meant. 

+

When Sam got up the next morning, the first thing he saw was that Cas’s bedroom door was open, but he wasn’t inside. "Huh," he said. Dean’s door was closed, which wasn’t unusual as his brother was not an early riser by nature. 

Cas also wasn’t an early riser, so when he wasn’t in the bathroom or the kitchen, Sam’s wheels began to turn.

When Sam saw the cleared table – the books and papers all on the floor, the chairs pushed back and one even overturned - he was pretty sure. (Ah, that was the sound that had woken him briefly last night.) And when he saw the t-shirt Dean had been wearing yesterday tossed to the far side of the room, he was positive. 

“Thank you,” Sam whispered to whoever and whatever had finally cracked the Dean and Castiel standoff. 

He happily set the room back to rights, leaving Dean’s now-folded t-shirt conspicuously in the middle of the straightened out table, and he gleefully enjoyed his breakfast, waiting for Dean and his angel to emerge. 

By 8 a.m., Sam was ready for his morning run, but there was still no sign of Dean or Cas, so Sam decided to hurry things along. He went into Cas’s room and found one of the CDs he’d given him – one he was pretty sure Cas hadn’t listened to yet because Sam had designed it specifically to raise questions that Sam could then deflect to Dean – and put it into the player. 

Turning the volume way, way up, Sam pressed play and practically skipped back into the main room. He waited by the front door, listening for Dean’s explosion. 

Sure enough, mere moments later, Sam heard Dean’s feet hit the floor, and by the time the bunker swelled with the lines, “I wanna sex you up…” Dean had thrown his bedroom door open so forcefully it banged against the wall. By the time Dean bellowed -- truly, he _bellowed_ \-- “Sam!,” the younger Winchester was making a hasty exit out the front door. He could barely finish his usual circuit for laughing so hard. 

An hour or so later, as he made his way back to the bunker, he did wonder what Dean’s retribution would be, but Sam decided that so long as it wasn’t Nair in his shampoo, it would be worth it. 

+

Sam quietly entered the bunker to find both Dean and Cas doing research. 

“Hey guys,” he said, somewhat cautiously.

“Hey,” both said simultaneously. 

“You going to do some work today or what?,” Dean asked. “We’ve got prep work about alleged spirit activity in Norfolk.”

“Uh – sure,” Sam answered. “Let me take a shower first, and I’ll pitch in.”

Sam sniffed all of his bath products carefully but didn’t discover anything suspicious, so he showered, dressed, and returned to the library in a matter of minutes, hair intact.

“What can I do?” he asked. 

“Check the death records for kids born between 1995 and 2013 – we can’t figure out why exactly this spirit is creating havoc now and think it has something to do with a fairly recent death.”

“Okay,” Sam said and settled into work. Huh, he thought, surreptitiously glancing around the table. Maybe this really was the start of a new chapter in all their lives – the mature Winchesters. Who would have thought, he wondered. 

Sometime later, Sam glanced up and found his brother and Castiel locked in another eternal gaze. He watched them for at least a minute, and neither seemed aware of his presence. He stretched his full Sasquatch arm span and threw in a grunt for good measure Still – no awareness, no recognition. 

So _that_ isn’t going anywhere. He sighed. At least the tension is gone, he thought. Though as he watched them, he began to wonder at what point the eye sex would become physical sex, which would, of course, create some degree of tension for the sole witness in the room…

Great—just great, Sam thought. The more things change, the more they stay the same. 

But even as that thought crossed his mind, he noted the clarity of the green eyes latched onto the blue ones, how they shone with a hope he hadn’t seen there in a while—maybe ever. Despite his grousing, that alone made the eye sex bearable, and Sam smiled to himself as he turned his attention back to the records he was searching. 

“What’s so funny, Sammy?” Dean asked. Of course, Sam thought, Dean would notice _his_ smile – not the five minutes of ocular intercourse Dean himself had just engaged in. 

“What can I say, Dean? I’m just happy—ecstatic, really,” Sam said, giving his brother a fond look. 

Dean flushed, a reaction that made Sam grin in earnest. Cas gave them a puzzled expression, knowing he was missing something but not knowing what.  


And they all, very studiously, went back to work--at least, until the eye sex became not enough for Dean and Cas, and they took their work to the bedroom, which happened by about mid-afternoon. At which point Sam went for another run...a really, _really_ long run.


End file.
